


VETSCO à gogo

by sierraadeux



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots to Idiots, M/M, Roller Skate hottie Phil, Rollerblades & Rollerskates, Twitch Streamer Dan, but pretty mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26565166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sierraadeux/pseuds/sierraadeux
Summary: The guy is just really hot, and maybe Dan’s also a bit concerned he’s going to fall with all the times he’s watched him wiggle and wobble on seemingly unsteady limbs. He never does, or at least he hasn’t yet, but Dan would like to think he’s got his back if he ever does.orthe twitch streamer who just can't seem to get his roller skating neighbor out of his mind
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 31
Kudos: 109





	VETSCO à gogo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dickiegreenleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickiegreenleaf/gifts).



> big big happy birthday to my bestest friend the love of my life the dan to my phil the inappropriate dick joke to my pee joke <333 lub u kewwwy!!!  
> also for those uneducated: VETSCO = video essayist twitch streamer cat owner (often followed by Dan, coined by kelly)

“Hold on, going AFK,” Dan says distractedly, pausing his game and stretching his neck out to get a glimpse out the open window. He can’t see much on account of the height, and the big black furry butt taking up the sill, so he rolls forward to pull up his “BRBizzle” card and mutes his mic. 

He won’t say he’s been Pavlov’d by the alternating smooth glide and clacking sounds of plastic on pavement. He hasn’t. And there’s absolutely no metaphors to be made about salivation and the fact that Dan is tugged back towards his setup the second he stands up, forgetting his headphones are still on his head. 

It isn’t his fault they don’t make the ones with the cute black cat ears at the top wireless. 

Dan pulls them off his head, slotting them to sit on the back of his gaming chair and instinctually bringing a hand up to flick and fluff at his out of place curls as he makes his way over to the window. 

He crouches down to peer out the window, the cool autumn breeze that’s made his small office comfortable biting at his cheeks. There’s a low rumble that starts up under his hand as Dan scratches at his cat’s back, a small chirrup leaving his little throat as he, too, watches the object of Dan’s admiration down below. 

The office in Dan’s apartment overlooks the building’s courtyard. It doesn’t lend to the nicest views, and it almost made him pass up on the place when he was first looking—before it dawned on him that looking out to the other wall of the U-shaped building with the small, circular courtyard below is far quieter than looking out to a busy London street. Perfect for a streamer that rarely leaves the house. He can have the fresh air his body craves with little to no interruptions while live on Twitch or filming the rare video. 

Well. There _were_ no interruptions up until this past summer. 

Dan reckons the noise that makes every train of thought depart Dan’s station all at once doesn’t even pick up on his mic. It’s not as loud as honking horns or the sirens of emergency vehicles, but it distracts Dan nonetheless. It’s he, and he alone, that uses his usual pee breaks from the streams to stare out the window every time he hears it. 

Once again. There’s nothing Pavlovian about this situation. 

The guy is just _really_ hot, and maybe Dan’s also a bit concerned he’s going to fall with all the times he’s watched him wiggle and wobble on seemingly unsteady limbs. He never does, or at least he hasn’t yet, but Dan would like to think he’s got his back if he ever does. 

As if a man on the eighth floor on his knees by his window with his chin resting on his cat’s back would help him any more than the sparkly silver helmet on his head and the mismatched knee and elbow pads on his limbs. What was Dan going to do? Bring him a plaster from the box in his medicine cabinet that he’s pretty sure is empty? 

Today the knee pads are blue and green, the one’s on his elbows are a hot pink, and the early afternoon sun that peeks through the clouds makes his helmet reflect little holographic rainbows every time he skates through the patches of sun in the loop that is their shared courtyard. 

Those are the few things Dan knows about him. He lives in the building, Dan’s run into him a few times coming in or out, seen him up close in the way that makes his mouth run dry and prevents him from ever introducing himself. And he likes to roller skate, or blade—whatever it is with the four wheels and silly stopper at the toe. 

He has the big chunky skates on now, a crisp white with blue wheels and purple laces. They clack against the stone of the courtyard, echoing a bit as the man speeds up and glides. It’s mesmerizing. Calming even, despite Dan’s heart constantly jumping up his throat at every wobble and waving of unsteady arms. But there’s no wipeouts—never is. Dan has no idea how he manages that. 

He doesn’t watch for long, only his typical two minutes—120 seconds, give or take—before he pushes himself back up. He pats at his cat’s head, a scratch between the ears as he stretches his legs. His knees pop in that satisfying way they do after getting up from being sat on stream for over an hour. He rolls his neck while he makes his way back to his set up, grabbing his headphones and sliding back into his chair. 

“How was your pee Dan?” Dan reads off the chat. His eyes catch a few more similar messages as it roars back to life at the sight of the away screen being replaced with his face cam. An influx of pee rating requests. His viewers are fucking weird. He loves it. 

“Eleven out of ten, great pee,” Dan lies with an effortless smirk. He unpauses his game and rolls himself closer to his keyboard. “Now where were we?” 

\- 

The irony isn’t lost on Dan while he’s signing for his stupid, stupid package. 

At least he looks decent, his buzzer going off in the middle of an attempt at filming a video essay on his latest hyper-fixation. He’s got a clean jumper on, not a hair out of place, and there’s even some brightening powder dusted over his nose and forehead—combating the sweaty face syndrome he gets in front of his hot filming lights. It’s a far cry from his usual gremlin fed after midnight or deep sea monster couture he usually has going on when he’s puttering about at home on days he isn’t streaming or filming. 

Despite knowing that he looks good, despite being given the perfect opportunity of the hot roller skate man—sans roller skates—coming down to the lobby as Dan tucks the big box under his arm to scribble at the digital pad held out to him, Dan still doesn’t say hello. 

No, he’s gotta be a fucking weirdo instead. One who lingers once the delivery person exits the building, an eye keeping track of what row and column sits the little mailbox the guy sticks his key in. When the lift dings, Dan bolts. He’s aware of how creepy this is, but as someone who’s made his peace about stopping everything to watch a random stranger roller skate out his window, this isn’t all that bad. Right? 

Right? Please tell him he’s right. He really needs this. 

He’s not committing any sort of mail fraud, at least. He Thinks. He’s just… sliding his finger down the row until it reaches the column he counted while the guy was standing in front of it. His finger pauses above the scrawled name. 

_Phil Lester._

Dan says it aloud a few times on the empty lift back up to the eighth floor. It feels nice on his tongue. 

He could’ve introduced himself, saved himself the trouble—and shame that heats his cheeks long after he’s stepped back though his door—but that would’ve been too easy. And when Dan decides to commit to something, he’ll never cop out for anything other than overboard. He doesn’t do things halfway. His passionate ass won’t let him. The proof of that is in the £150 matte black rollerblades he unboxes on the kitchen floor. 

-

The first time Dan takes the skates outside isn’t the first time he’s put them on. It wouldn’t even be the tenth. After initially trying them on and doing a little roll around his kitchen while death-gripping his counters for stability, he’s been wearing them around the apartment all week. Not necessarily skating—he doesn’t want to see if that would get him evicted—but more so breaking them in as all his research suggested, as well as attempting to get used to them. 

He doesn’t think he’s any less wobbly, but he’s grown impatient after a week of short rolls around his lounge and his entire chat telling him he looks as though he’s had ten red bulls as he rolls his feet back and forth under his desk with the wheels of his gaming chair locked every stream. 

He’s just excited. The skates aren’t necessarily broken in yet, Dan doesn’t think—if him using the last plaster he has on a particularly bad blister at his ankle before pulling up his thick black and white tube socks is anything to go by. But once he’s got the idea in his head, and a free afternoon on the horizon, there’s no stopping him. 

There’s a slight bite in the air through his open window—his cat perched in it as always—so Dan tugs on a pair of ripped jeans and his black jumper with the thin white stripes. It’s his cartoon character outfit, or _the Dan uniform_ , as his viewers so lovingly call it. To him, it’s comfort. It’s what he knows he looks good in. It’s a big middle finger to the notion that he should have to wear something once then toss it out, like most celebrities are expected to do. 

Not like Dan is a celebrity or anything. He’s just a video essayist. A Twitch streamer. A cat dad. 

He’s a guy taking the lift down to the courtyard in his socks with the tied laces of his new rollerblades around the back of his neck, the skates sitting heavy on his chest. Because even if he’s technically about to do some form of exercise, hell will freeze over before he takes the stairs. 

Dan sits on the cool stone edge of the sad looking fountain in the center of the courtyard and slides on and laces up his inline skates. He tugs at them hard, making sure they fit snugly, and takes a moment to appreciate the changing leaves on the few trees around the courtyard while he quadruple knots the laces. 

They’re a reminder of his favorite month rapidly approaching. He’s not sure why, perhaps it’s just the season, but it has always felt like there’s something special about October. It’s the time of year that gets him properly yearning, makes him want to fall in love. Or whatever. 

Okay, now he’s just stalling. Cuffing season isn’t real. 

Dan shakes his head and takes in a deep breath. He lets it out slowly as he places his hands on the stone by his thighs and gears himself up to stand up and actually try to skate on something that isn’t a stretch of laminate wood half a meter between his coffee table and sofa. 

Surprisingly, he manages quite alright. He’s a bit wobbly, and he bets he looks like a newborn giraffe with his arms all stretched out and his legs constantly trying to make him do the splits, but he gets the hang of it after a while. 

As he makes his slow, tentative loops around the small courtyard, he’s incredibly thankful that he chose a day that Phil wasn’t out. He could actually get used to this, get better at it. He might actually get good enough to not only have a conversation starter, but _impress_ Phil. The thought alone puts a bit of a kick to his heel, upping his speed as he turns around the fountain. 

God, this was a great idea. The best idea he’s had all month really. The- 

Dan is falling, his feet slipping and tipping him forward, all the cocky thoughts floating about his head screeching to a halt as he frantically puts his hands out in front of him to stop him from crunching his nose against the pavement. 

Well, fuck. 

There’s a ringing in his ears, a sharp stinging at his unprotected knees and palms. All Dan can think as he folds in on himself right where he fell is that he’s quite possibly the biggest fucking idiot in the universe. 

He hisses through his teeth as he tests out moving his knees, the idea immediately scratched. 

“Think I’ll just hang out here for a bit, then,” he mumbles to himself, followed by a groan more out of his own mortification than from the pain shooting at his hands and knees. He’d quite like to just sink into the pavement, thank you very much. 

Footsteps. He hears footsteps. 

“Oh no,” Dan groans, folding in on himself further. 

“Hey!” a rapidly approaching voice calls. “Are you alright?” 

“Oh nooo,” Dan barely whispers. He begs for his body to miraculously become a liquid and seep into the cracks in the pavement, just so he doesn’t have to face whoever this is. It was embarrassing enough without an audience. 

“Fine thanks,” Dan croaks out, managing to peel a palm off the pavement to hold out a thumbs up. It stings like a motherfucker. He immediately digs his fingers into the pain, hissing through his teeth. He’s able to ignore the stinging at his knees enough to push himself over so he’s sat on his ass instead of curled up like a big man baby. 

He hadn’t even realized he was squeezing his eyes shut until he blinks them back open, now face to face with—you guessed it—hot roller skate guy. 

The Mortification of Daniel Howell: coming to a theater near you! 

Phil is bending down right in front of him, hands on his knees with wide, concerned eyes and comically furrowed brows as he looks down at Dan. 

_Oh noooo,_ Dan’s brain supplies. 

“Need a hand?” Phil holds one out. 

Dan looks down at his own palms, at the deep angry red and prickling spots of blood, then back up at Phil. He bets his face is a similar shade to his hands. He doesn’t even want to look at his knees. 

“Oh.” Phil frowns before Dan can say anything, eyeing Dan’s hands. “Yikes.” He steps forward, and completely drops down on his knees right between Dan’s feet. 

“Yikes, indeed,” Dan says through his teeth. 

“Do you want help getting them off?” Phil asks, a hand hovering by Dan’s left skate. 

“This is humiliating,” Dan groans. It takes a great attempt to not fall back on the pavement and hide his face in his hands. 

Phil just chuckles lightly. “Happens all the time.” He’s grabbing at Dan’s skate, gently moving his leg so it’s sat in his lap, not waiting for a proper answer apparently. 

And apparently Dan doesn’t mind. 

“Yeah, right,” Dan huffs, his palms stinging as he sits up straighter and crosses his arms. He’s never seen Phil fall, and he’s watched him skate for hours. It’s not like he’s going to say that aloud, though. So he just pouts and watches Phil tug at all of the knots in his laces instead. 

“I’m Phil, by the way.” Phil loosens Dan’s laces and Dan hisses as he wiggles his foot to help Phil tug it off. Dan bites back the _I know_ , on his tongue. 

“Dan.” 

Phil looks up at him then, not even looking as he lifts Dan’s other foot into his lap. His smile is bright. Dan doesn’t detect an ounce of pity. Which is nice, he guesses. Dan breathes out deeply at the sharp pain at his knee. 

“Nice to meet you, Dan,” Phil says before getting back to work at his laces. 

Dan lets out a sarcastic huff of a laugh. “Don’t think this is nice, mate,” he says through gritted teeth as Phil tugs his skate off. “Fuck,” he hisses. 

“Sorry,” Phil says softly, a comforting hand at Dan’s calf. He pats at it a few times before sitting back. Dan doesn’t know if he’s more mortified by Phil seeing him like this, or by the way he misses the touch when it’s gone. They’re equally as pathetic, he thinks. 

“It’s gonna be a bitch to stand up,” Phil states the obvious. 

Dan flicks his eyes from his lap up to Phil’s face, he’s looking directly at his knees. Dan stomach swoops at the very thought. He looks away, off to the side, suddenly very interested in a window on the second floor. 

“I don’t even want to think about it,” Dan says through his teeth. 

“Queasy?” 

Dan shakes his head. He definitely is. 

Phil hums, and then he hears a shuffle in front of him. Hopefully Phil is leaving, putting Dan out of his misery. 

Dan isn’t so lucky. When Dan looks up, Phil has tied his skates back together and hung them over a shoulder. They clack together as he bends down, a hand at Dan’s back and the other holding Dan’s arm over his shoulder, carefully helping him up. Dan hisses every curse word he’s ever learned, and maybe a few he makes up on the spot, as he’s slowly pulled up. Phil is laughing, but for some reason, Dan doesn’t think it’s _at_ him. 

He laughs, too. Maybe he’s starting to lose it. At least he’s not fucking crying - he kind of wants to with the amount of pain stinging at his knees. He’s properly fucked them up, he knows it. He still doesn’t look down. 

“Why weren’t you wearing any protection?” Phil asks as they make their way across the courtyard.

Despite the stinging at his knees making him hobble and hiss, Dan thinks he could definitely walk on his own now that he’s up. He doesn’t take his arm back from around Phil’s shoulders though, he lets himself shamelessly relish in the feeling of the soft hand wrapped around his wrist. It’s the only nice feeling he has right now. Plus, he’s feeling shameful about five thousand other things at the moment, so… he needs to level it out somehow. 

“Wanted to be like one of those cool girls on rollerblades. They don’t wear helmets,” Dan mutters. 

“TikTok is ruining society,” Phil replies with a squeeze at Dan’s wrist. 

Dan laughs, his cackle echoing around the courtyard and back into his own ears. “You sound like-” 

“ _Don’t_ say it,” Phil warns, looking to the side to shoot Dan a glare. It doesn’t land as well when Dan can tell the corners of his mouth are trying to twitch up, and soon Phil joins in on his laughter. 

“This was the worst day to use my last plaster,” Dan says, mostly to himself, as they wait for the lift. 

Phil clicks his tongue. Dan watches as he looks down at his knees again, watches how his glasses start to slide down his nose. Categorizes the slope of it while he’s there, because he’s sure as hell not following Phil’s gaze. It’s an interesting nose. Unique in the way that Dan doesn’t at all mean in a bad way, he hates how the word often loses its true meaning. 

He quite likes Phil’s nose—decides it’s as attractive as his sharp cheekbones and the perfect arch of the brows many shades lighter than his hair. Dan kind of wishes he could beat his own into shape like that. He decides to hate Phil, viscerally, if those are his natural brows and not the product of meticulous plucking or waxing.

Blue eyes are now looking right at him, pink lips moving to say words Dan doesn’t hear. 

Dan blinks. “What?” 

Those perfect brows tug together. “I asked if you had a first aid kit?” 

Dan shakes his head. “Nope,” he replies with a pop. “Kitchen roll will have to do,” he laughs, stepping into the lift as it opens. 

Phil follows, of course, because they’re still all wrapped around each other in a way they definitely don’t need to be. Neither of them are pulling away though. 

Phil’s hand hovers by the buttons. The lift door slides closed. 

They open their mouths at the same time. 

“Eighth-” 

“I have one, if you want to come up.” 

The lift is filled with light laughter. Dan leans into Phil’s side, if only to relieve the strain on one of his knees. 

“Yeah, alright,” Dan says softly. 

He doesn’t even scoff when Phil presses a finger to the button for the top floor. Maybe he _did_ hit his head when he fell. 

-

Dan’s more than a little nosy when the lift doors open again, having never a reason to be on any floor of his building other than his own and the main one. He’s especially never had a reason to be on the top floor—four storeys above his own. 

It’s nothing surprising, really. Identical walls, floors, and doors—although there seems to be a few less of the last. They walk at a snail's pace, Dan hissing through his teeth as they turn a corner. He distracts himself from his stinging knees by mapping out the building, guessing that Phil’s flat is on the opposite of the U from Dan’s. He stores that information away for later. For what? Hell if he knows, but he stores it all the same. Just as he stores the soft noises of encouragement—or maybe he’s just trying to get Dan to shut the fuck up—leaving Phil’s throat after every sharp intake of breath. 

The door at the very end of the hall is wide open. One of those nice corner units with the balconies that Dan looks up at sometimes, thinking about all of the nonsense his cat would get up to if he had one. 

Of course it’s Phil’s. 

There’s a nervous huff of a laugh from beside him, Phil eyeing Dan eyeing the door as they approach. 

“I kind of bolted when I saw you fall,” Phil says, his shoulders lifting in a shy shrug. “Good thing no one swung it shut, ‘cause I don’t have my keys.” Phil pats at his thigh before gesturing for Dan to step over the threshold. Dan’s eyes flick down at the soft noise, it’s the first time he notices the worn lavender shorts Phil is wearing, and how he’s not the only one padding around in socks. 

He’s more focused on the shorts than the colorful mismatched socks—they leave _very_ little to the imagination. 

Dan is a bit distracted by them, if he’s being honest. Though if asked, he’ll blame his eyes going out of focus, his need to lean against the wall adjacent from the front door on dizziness from his injuries. Is he feigning feeling faint, or does he actually feel faint? He’s not even sure himself. 

Phil doesn’t seem to pay him any mind, thankfully. He turns his back to Dan—oh sweet heaven—and hangs Dan’s skates on a hook in the opposite wall, right next to his own colorful, clunky looking things. The black plastic clangs against the wall and Phil doesn’t flinch at the sound like Dan does, clearly uncaring about scuff marks or his deposit. 

“Am I losing you?” Phil asks, concern at his brow when he turns back around, Dan blinking his eyes open at his voice. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them, never mind leaned his head back against the wall. Maybe he _is_ actually feeling faint. 

He shakes his head in a short, small motion, humming something that might be words, might not, in response. 

Phil laughs softly, the sound bouncing around the hall and curling into Dan’s ears. It’s a good laugh, would probably be better if Dan wasn’t so aware of the slight ringing in his ears. Phil tells him to stay put, that he’ll be right back, and Dan nods. He lets his eyes slip shut again as Phil disappears, turning down another hall, and repeats the instructions in his head until it spins just a little bit slower. 

Dan opens his eyes again when he hears a few consecutive crashes from somewhere else in the flat. 

“I’m okay!” Phil calls, loud but muffled. Dan can’t help but snort. The odds _would_ be so stacked against him that he’d end up having to take the guy helping him to A&E. He wouldn’t expect anything else from his life. 

As he waits, because he’s Dan, he starts to get a bit fidgety. Which only leads to him getting more and more nosy as he listens to the various low curses and falling objects from the other room. He makes his way down the short hall, past a coat closet and a washroom, and pokes his head in the direction Phil disappeared off to, then in the opposite. 

It’s familiar, a very similar set up and furnishings to Dan’s own, just flip flopped the other way around. Oh and, well, also the big glass doors streaming in light when he peeks into the lounge. He bypasses it before he starts to get too jealous, walking a bit further down the end of the hall that isn’t ringing out the clanging clatter of whatever the hell Phil is up to, locating the kitchen. 

Dan lifts his brows immediately, huffing in a bit of shocked laughter as he leans against the doorframe. Their kitchens are honestly _identical_ , minus Phil’s brightly colored oven mitts, fridge magnets, and plethora of cacti teetering on the window sill. 

Oh yeah. There’s also the big, professional looking camera set up on a tall tripod on the tile, pointing towards the stove. That’s definitely not a feature of Dan’s kitchen. 

“It’s not what you think.” Phil’s voice in his ear makes him jump. He steps around him, gesturing to the camera with a red box in his hand. “This isn’t like an OnlyFans thing,” Phil says. Dan can’t tell if it’s the reflection of the first aid kit or if Phil’s cheeks are a few shades darker than they were a few minutes prior. 

Dan clicks his tongue, folding his arms across his chest. “Shame.” He frowns, acting put out. “Could get into that. Bit of food play.” Dan lifts his brows a few times. 

Phil’s eyes go wide. “I-”

They both burst out into laughter. Dan at the red taking over the entirety of Phil’s face. Phil, probably, at Dan’s unattractive cackle of a laugh. 

Through wheezy giggles Phil explains, “I’m a YouTuber.” 

Dan goes on a bit of a face journey. He’s not proud of it, but it’s hard to keep his cool, guard the emotions that always want to dance across his face, when his palms and knees are throbbing. If he’s making a fool of himself in front of Phil, might as well round up the whole goddamn clown car of embarrassing and unattractive qualities, he rationalizes. 

Is that rationalizing? Probably not. Possibly just the downhill slope of his dissension into madness—he must’ve bent his knees and zoomed right down it on his rollerblades… 

Right, he’s still just bouncing his eyebrows all around—up and scrunching together as his mouth opens and closes, eyes squinting, then going wide. What the fuck is he doing? 

Thinking… maybe. Words. He should respond to the blue eyes that are going wider with concern with every moment Dan lets the air hang in this silence that he’s apparently determined to make weird. 

“Oh,” Dan’s voice cracks. Of course it does. “Me too.” 

Phil glances down at that, looking at his silly socks on the white tile. The pink dusting his cheeks isn’t a reflection, Dan’s sure of it now. 

“I know,” Phil says softly, mumbling the two words in a way that makes Dan think he doesn’t want him to pick up on them at all. 

Dan does, though, so he quirks a brow. “What?” 

“Well,” Phil looks up, waving his hand not holding the kit around in front of him, “I kind of watch your videos.” He looks right back down as Dan takes in a breath, only bringing his eyes up enough to speak to the stove. “Just like, I dunno,” he says, sheepish. The tips of his ears tinge pink. Dan thinks it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen—blushing all the way up to his ears, who even does that? 

Dan nearly chokes on his breath again when Phil suddenly turns, looking directly at him. 

“You’ve got a nice voice,” Phil continues. “You’re smart. I like listening to the things you have to say, even if I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.” 

As Phil looks at him, Dan finally gets what all those pretentious twits—himself included, probably—mean when they say someone’s eyes are _piercing blue._ That’s the only way he can describe the feeling he gets being looked at so intensely with such a shade, like something sharp has pierced his skin and if he dare moves even an inch all of his blood will come rushing out. 

The thought makes him a little dizzy again. There’s stability in the doorframe at his side. Somehow, there’s stability in those eyes. 

“Even if I don’t give a crap about what you’re talking about. But you make that kind of hard to do,” Phil adds with a laugh and a shy shrug. “I admire your passion.” 

“Oh,” Dan says softly. He reckons he’s got a bit of an ear blush going as well, now. “Wow. Thank you,” he hums, earnestly. He can’t tell whether it’s Phil’s stare or his words that are making him nearly incapable of words. 

“I kind of-” Phil stops, shakes his head. “No, that’s too embarrassing,” he says with a little huff of a laugh, looking away. Dan takes a breath while he can. 

“Mate.” Dan pushes away from the doorframe to nudge at Phil’s arm with his elbow. “You just watched me wipe out and then lie on the ground like a baby. I don’t know what could be more embarrassing than that.” 

Phil sighs. When he looks back to Dan he’s biting his bottom lip. It only draws attention to how _pink_ they are. And soft. Dan doesn’t know if they’re soft, but they look it. 

He’d quite like to know… 

It pings free and Phil flashes him a pleading look for all of a second. Almost like a: _please don’t think I’m a fucking weirdo_. Dan’s given him that same look about seven times over in the short time they’ve known each other. 

Which, _apparently_ , knowing _of_ one another hasn’t been as short. Dan’s not quite ready to put all of those creepy cards out on the table yet though. 

“Well…” Phil starts. And once he starts he doesn’t stop, and neither does Dan’s widening grin. 

“When I finally realized the familiar guy in the building was actually _you_ , I may have looked at your mailbox for your apartment number and slipped you a note because I wanted to say hi. And I maaay have gotten the numbers mixed up and actually put it under the door of the old lady that lives below you.” Phil takes in a breath, cocks his head a bit to the side as he looks up and smiles. “She’s quite nice, by the way. Had me over for tea and didn’t even laugh at me that much when I explained the whole mix up. Even though I sneezed for like a week because of all her cats imbedding their hair in my jumper. They’re cute and all but, like, what even is the point of cats, they seem like they’re just terror demons sent from-” 

“Mate,” Dan interrupts—smirk on his lips, humor in his tone. “I’ve got a cat. 

“Oops,” Phil giggles. “Sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry at all. 

Dan only smiles wider. “I’d say loving, lazy terror demons from hell.” 

Phil laughs at that, too loud for the enclosed space they’re in, stood so close together. He reaches out, a gentle hand at Dan’s arm, when laughter is replaced with something more neutral—a slight tug of a frown with a glance at Dan’s current state, actually. 

“Hey,” Phil says, soft, “let’s get you fixed up.” 

-

The second Phil sets him down on the sofa and he leans back on the plush cushions, Dan’s immediately aware of just how much his lower back hurts from his fall. Man, he really can’t catch a break. 

“At least they were already holey.” Phil pokes at the holes in Dan’s jeans, part of the tasteful rips that go all the way up Dan’s thighs. It distracts him at least, from all of the various shooting pains in his apparent old man body. “Perfect for church,” Phil adds, looking up at Dan from his crouched position with a bright smile. 

“Wha-” It takes a moment for it to click, but when it does Dan snorts incredulously. “God, that was awful.” He shakes his head as Phil giggles behind his hand, sitting back on his heels. 

Dan winces, looks away whilst Phil continues to pick and pull at the bits of broken string and shredded fabric at Dan’s knees. 

Phil sighs. “We’re gonna need to get you out of these.” 

Dan looks away from the spot of ceiling he’s been focused on, flicking his eyes down to look at Phil. _Down_ , because Phil is still on his knees in front of him. Talking about taking his jeans off. He’s going to need a plaster for his bottom lip, too, if he keeps up with this. 

“That was the worst build up to a chat up line ever, Phil,” Dan jokes—by some miracle sounding casual, albeit a little strained from the throbbing at his knees. 

“It wasn’t a line,” Phil laughs, gently batting at Dan’s calf. “It’s not going to do any good with all these bits in the way.” Phil tugs at another broken string and Dan winces, mostly because when he’s looking at Phil all of the drying blood that’s sticking his skin to his jeans is in his peripheral. 

Pouting about the loss of these particular jeans seems like the best distraction method. 

Phil merely laughs at his material woes, of course he does. 

“Why are you upset if they already had holes in them?” Phil says to Dan’s grumbled complaints about the jeans being _expensive_ and _ruined_ as he fumbles with the button fly. He’s about to hiss at the pain at his palms being agitated with the movement, but his mind is instantly cleared by a finger running up his thigh. Phil pokes his index finger through one of the unmarred holes, right below his pocket, and wiggles it against his skin. 

It elicits an intake of breath that’s definitely not from the pain. 

Dan shakes his head—in disagreement, but also to clear it. “It’s the _aesthetic_ ,” he huffs. “All of those stringy bits had a place and now they’re all fucked up.” He continues to pout as he goes to push himself up to attempt to wiggle out of his jeans. 

It’s a bit of an endeavor, to say the least. Dan uses Phil’s shoulder for stability as he tries to peel them off, but eventually gives in and accepts Phil’s help—in too much pain with all the aggravation at his knees to be embarrassed by it. 

Or, well, however else he’d feel about a hot guy pushing him back and gently tugging his jeans off. Most of the blood at his knees has dried, sticking the fabric to his skin and making the process of getting the tight material off so much worse. It’s the most unsexy way a man’s ever gotten him down to his pants, and would probably be far more mortifying under any other circumstances, but they manage without any other bodily injuries—to either of them. 

There was a moment where Dan nearly took Phil’s eye out with his toe, and Dan does lose a sock along the way. But they come out of it mostly unscathed otherwise. 

Phil sympathetically clicks his tongue at all of the angry red blisters on Dan’s exposed foot. Dan tucks it behind his socked one—they’re the least of his concern now that he’s sitting back on Phil’s sofa in nothing but his black pants, jumper, and one sock, getting a proper look down at his bloody knees for the first time. 

“Don’t look if it’ll make it worse,” Phil says softly, pulling Dan’s attention away. He doesn’t respond, merely humming a small sound in the back of his throat as he watches Phil sit back down before him and open his first aid kit. 

Dan says every swear he knows, a few he doesn’t, and a few he makes up on the fly while Phil cleans off his knees. Phil is so good though, immediately starting off on some wild story about dogs and robots and computers taking over the world the second he starts dabbing at them with whatever it is that’s turned the stinging up to maximum power. 

It’s enough to distract Dan. Phil’s voice alone is enough to distract him, Dan reckons. A low and soothing timbre, soft hushes whenever Dan flinches away, and hearty chuckles whenever Dan questions whatever ridiculous thing he’s just said. 

Before he knows it, Phil has Dan’s knees entirely covered in an assortment of pink Hello Kitty and blue and green Jurassic Park plasters. 

“Really?” Dan says the second he looks down to see what Phil has been up to whilst catching him up on all of the ‘ _i_ _ntense pigeon drama’_ on his balcony. 

“What?” Phil looks up, his smile as bright as his eyes. “The normal ones are boring. These are fun!” 

Dan just shakes his head. Maybe with the way his jaw is starting to ache with his smile he’ll forget about the pain at his knees entirely. 

They look a lot less gnarly like that, being cleaned up. But mostly for the ridiculously childish plasters, and also—maybe—the kiss that Phil presses to two of his fingers then gently taps against one of the velociraptor's faces. 

Dan doesn’t flinch at that touch. Not at all. 

Dan’s palms are an easier clean, surprisingly, despite how they still feel like they took the brunt of his fall, and he’s only left with one particularly cute Hello Kitty surrounded by hearts on the deeper scrape in the fleshy part of his left thumb. 

Any and all teasing words die right in his throat as he looks down at the stupid plasters he’s covered in, it’s hard to complain or form coherent thoughts with Phil’s hands all over him. 

“Let me see if I have a few more,” Phil says, standing up after staring into the two empty boxes for quite some time, as if more plasters would appear by magic if he kept at it. 

Dan quirks a brow, looking himself over again. “What for?” 

“Your feet. They look horrible!” 

“Oh thank you,” Dan quips, voice thick with sarcasm. “Just what a guy wants to hear.” 

Phil shakes his head. “I don’t mean-” He looks from Dan’s face to his feet, one still missing a sock. “They’re not _bad_ , actually-” Phil shakes his head again. “No, won’t get into that.” His face is that cute shade of pink again. 

Dan settles back into the sofa, little huffs of laughter leaving his chest—it’s fun to watch a cute guy squirm. 

“I _meant_ ,” Phil gestures to Dan’s bare foot, “your blisters look awful. It’ll suck to put shoes on without covering them up.” 

“Who needs shoes?” Dan shrugs. “Don’t leave the house much anyway.” After a little laugh to himself, Dan looks up at Phil—an earnest expression on his face. “I’ll be fine. You’ve been far too kind and I should be getting out of your hair.” Dan makes no movement to get up. “Thank you.” 

Phil’s bottom lip starts to wobble, just the tiniest movement as if he’s moments away from jutting it out in a pout. The movement is so small Dan reckons he wouldn’t catch it if it weren’t for how his eyes keep finding their way back there. 

He just… has such a well-defined cupid’s bow. So pink. So soft. So-

Oh. They’re moving again. Phil is saying words and all Dan’s brain is processing is: _lips, lips, lips._

“-was weird of me to offer, though.” Phil chuckles nervously, scratching at the back of his head. He looks down at his own feet, not meeting Dan’s confused eye. “Never mind I said that,” he mumbles. 

Dan, honestly, has no fucking clue what Phil is on about and he knows it’s entirely his own damn fault for not paying attention—or, well, paying attention to the wrong things—but he can’t bear to see Phil so... embarrassed? doubting himself? Whatever it is that’s making him look as though he wants to fold himself up into a thin little envelope and slide right out under the door. 

So Dan does something stupid—not for the first time that day, probably not the last either—and instead of asking what Phil’s talking about, letting him know that his singular gay braincell was wandering instead of listening, Dan opens his mouth and says, “Yes.” 

“Yes,” he repeats himself when Phil looks up with those wide, blue eyes, “that sounds good.” 

The fact that he has no idea what he’s agreeing to makes it all the funnier. 

-

Shame he’s not a storytime YouTuber. Dan can see the millions of views flooding in now—Reasons Why Dan’s A Fail: The Time I Unknowingly Said Yes To A Foot Massage From A Stranger. 

Okay, maybe not entirely a stranger, he’s-

“ _Phil!”_ Dan cackles, fully extending his leg and kicking his foot out. Phil ducks out of the way with a shout. Serves him right for continuing to lightly run his thumb against Dan’s arch despite the five insistent and giggly warnings about how much it tickles. 

“Stop that!”

“ _You_ stop it, then!” Dan settles back against the arm of the sofa, unlocking his knee so Phil can push his foot away from his face and hold it level with his stomach again. It only stings a little as he bends his knee. If Dan’s being honest, he’s mostly focused on the firm fingers pressing into the bottom of his foot, and how absolutely _comfortable_ he is in a situation that should be anything but. 

Dan is completely lounging across Phil’s sofa now, his head resting on the arm and Phil sat facing Dan with his legs crossed at the other end—Dan’s right foot in his hands. 

Yeah. That’s what’s happening. _Apparently_. 

“You started it,” Phil huffs softly. 

Dan pushes forward, digs his big toe into the soft material of Phil’s shirt right at the center of his stomach, feeling the warmth of his skin through it. Phil makes a face—it’s hilarious that he thinks he can look put out with the corners of his lips twitching into a smile like that—but he doesn’t push Dan’s foot away. 

“Did I get your bellybutton?” 

Phil shakes his head, still pressing his thumbs into Dan’s flesh even when Dan’s insistently poking at his stomach. Dan moves his toe a little to the left. It’s hard to tell with how Phil’s sitting, if he’s pressing into the fold of his stomach or if he’s just dipped his toe into the actual crevasse he’s looking for. 

“Now?” 

“Yeah, Dan.” Phil makes a show out of rolling his eyes. Dan smirks, holding Phil’s gaze as he wiggles his toe before letting up and letting Phil have control over where his foot goes again. 

There’s some sort of weird spike of courage when Phil switches feet. Dan feels it swirling strong in his stomach as Phil presses and pushes his thumbs into the ball of his left foot. Or, actually, maybe he’s just a little horny, and that’s what he’s feeling in his stomach. 

Okay. 

More than a little. 

Dan’s just glad for his oversized jumper, its hem pooling just above the bottom of his pants. He’ll unpack whatever foot thing he may or may not have later—or not at all, preferably. He’s got other things on the mind right now. 

All of those things being Phil. 

“You’re not the only creepy one,” Dan says, head leaning back against the arm of the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. He probably could fall asleep like this, with the hands of a guy he barely knows rubbing at his foot, fingers dancing up his ankle.

Isn’t that an alarming thought? 

“Excuse me?” Phil traces a finger around his ankle bone. He’s not really accomplishing anything on the foot massage front anymore, mostly just brushing the tips of his fingers against Dan’s skin. It almost tickles, but it feels too nice for Dan to even think about kicking away. 

“The whole mailbox thing?” Dan hums. Phil stills his movements. Dan huffs out a chuckle, pushing himself up on his elbows and running his foot up Phil’s torso, poking his toes at his chest. It earns a smile, the return of soft hands around his foot. 

“I basically did the same thing to find out your name,” Dan confesses. “Clearly should’ve done something more productive with it like whack it into Google, but I just wanted to know what the hot roller skate guy’s name was.” 

“Huh,” Phil hums. “Hot roller skate guy?” he asks, smug. 

“Shut up.” Dan tries to kick his foot forward to push at Phil, but Phil’s a few steps ahead, holding it firmly in place. He looks away from Phil’s lopsided smile—an unsuccessful attempt to reduce the patches of red blossoming all over his face. 

“I also maybe kind of watch you out my office window,” Dan says softly, focusing on the stupid little face of the Kirby figure sitting atop Phil’s television. “Often.” Yeah, he’s doing nothing about his blush—provoking it, really. But once he starts, he can’t seem to stop. “I only bought the skates to try to create some rom-com moment where we finally meet. Thought it’d end up with me impressing you with my sick skating skills and not like,” Dan gestures to his wrapped up knees, looking back at Phil, “this.” 

Phil snorts, squeezing around Dan’s foot. “Christ, we’re a right bunch of weirdos,” he laughs. Dan can’t help but cackle along with him. 

“Yeah,” Dan says, a little breathless. He thinks he likes it. 

“I like it,” Phil declares, holding Dan’s gaze as firmly as his foot. Dan grins from ear to ear. 

“Good, because it’d be real fucking weird for you to have my foot in your hand otherwise.” 

“It’s fucking weird that I have your foot in my hand, regardless.” Phil doesn’t make a single move to let it go. Dan’s glad for it. 

Dan snorts. “Yeah it is.”

“This is like… super wrong, right?” Phil asks after a few quiet moments of shared smiles and soft hums of appreciation at the fingers running up and down the bone of Dan’s shin. 

“What?” Dan plays stupid, cocking his head to the side with a smirk. 

Phil rolls his eyes, but humors him. “The whole like… you shouldn’t go into a stranger’s house and let them rub your feet thing.” 

Well, he’s got a point. 

“Is that a thing?” 

Phil nods his head, biting back a smile. 

“Well,” Dan purses his lips, “are you going to eat my toes or something?” 

Phil clacks his teeth together, biting at the air as he slides his hand down Dan’s calf and grips at his ankle. “Just might.” 

“Hm.” Dan puts on a whole show of mulling it over, rubbing at his jaw with his index finger. “Think I’ll take my chances,” he declares. “I should say, though, I do think you should take a boy out to dinner before sucking his toes.” 

It’s a miracle he keeps a straight face. 

Phil’s lips tug up. “Is that so?” 

Dan presses his lips together, his brows lifting as he nods, laughter desperate to leak out of his chest. Phil lets go of Dan’s ankle, and before Dan can even think about whining at the loss, he’s running both of his palms up and down the sides of Dan’s legs, leaning forward until his chest is at Dan’s bent knees. 

“What are you up to next Friday? Say six o’clock?” Phil asks. 

Dan smirks. He pushes himself up with a soft groan, sitting up so their noses are barely his pinky length’s apart. He can feel Phil’s increase in breath tickling at his cheeks. 

“Well,” Dan drawls out, looking up from his lashes, blinking a few times, just to be cheeky. “I’ll have to double check my schedule, but I think I can squeeze you in.” 

Phil laughs. There’s a soft shove at Dan’s shoulder, pushing his side into the back of the sofa. This time, Phil’s hand isn’t squeezing around Dan’s foot, but he feels the warmth at his soul all the same.


End file.
